He stood aside as she passed into the room, bringing with her an exquisite fragrance of roses.
“Will you be seated?” he asked, as he turned from closing the door.
“No; it is not worth while.”
“What is the trouble,—you or your mother?”
There had been nothing disconcerting in the Irish-woman’s stare; but she felt suddenly hot and uncomfortable under the doctor’s broad gaze.
“Neither of us,” she answered; “I broke the tonic bottle this morning, and as the number was destroyed, I should like to have you give me another prescription.”
“Directly. Take this chair for a moment.”
She seated herself perforce, and he took the chair beside the desk.
“How is she since yesterday?” he asked, as he wrote, without looking up.
“Quite as comfortable.”